Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. So was I, in fact.
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